


It's All Real, Becky

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:16:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're not a joke to me, Becky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Real, Becky

Becky Rosen is trolling the Supernatural fandom on her samlicker81 account with terrible wincest fic (because you have to try to laugh when the people you love more than the air in your lungs suffer dusty death at the hands of bankrupt publishing companies) when the video call trills on her computer.

And she comes face to face with one of the gods in her literary pantheon.

Unfortunately, this includes the confession of the impromptu sending of marzipan after she got a little bit buzzed over Christmas. That was embarrassing.

Becky’s not sure why she agrees with Carver Edlund when he tells her that Sam and Dean are real. Maybe it’s because they felt real—even when Carver Edlund’s writing was really off its game and riddled with cliches and character desecration.

But she laughs and she smiles because she has to, because it doesn’t hurt to go along with it—because she’s not working and she’s already done her laundry and she was kind of hankering for take out anyway so it’s not like she had to bother with dinner.

Carver Edlund gives her a short synopsis of what’s up. Angels.

And it gives her hope because there’s something to balance out the demons—to add symmetry to a chaotic world—it’s too good to be true though, so she isn’t really surprised when Carver Edlund tells her the angels are dicks. He gives her something to memorize, so she memorizes it because she has a 4.0 gpa and why the hell should she let that kind of brain power go to waste and, when he gives her an address, she memorizes that too and calls for a cab.

A very tall man answers her knock, and she says “Sam?” and he just looks at her and she can see it in his eyes—he’s Sam and that’s Dean, and Becky’s not really sure how it happened, but her hand’s over Sam’s chest, and he’s real, he’s firm, he’s solid, he’s not some intangible idea from a page that had somehow wormed her way into her soul and her head, and she can’t even speak because this has to be a miracle and she doesn’t believe in miracles, no not really.

And then, as she rattles off the vision that Carver Edlund told her about, the floor’s falling beneath her feet, swallowing her up entirely whole—the vastness of it, the existence of demons, the existence of everything—she’s Dorothy and she’s stepping into a technicolored universe but the yellow brick road is crumbling, splitted with weeds, and the paint’s flaking off and the munchkins probably have sharp pointy teeth and oh my god it’s the apocalypse, the world’s going to come to an end, and the only thing she can think about is that Sam, the character she fell in love with, is actually a person, and every word she wrote, every passionate essay she’s ever composed about his character—the compassion that made her weak in the knees, that made her weep when she thought about them suffering (only it’s worse now because it happened, it really really happened), is crashing down upon her, and she touches because he’s real, he’s real—and so is everything else—and the only thing her brain can do is stutter, trying to process it as her fingers feel the coarse cotton of Sam’s blue shirt, as her nose registers the stale air of the motel spiced with the singed scent of steel and gun oil, as her eyes follow the curve and arch of Sam’s cheekbones—and she can’t taste anything because her tongue’s swollen and dry from just how big it is, too big to chew, too big to swallow as Sam’s heart scuds beneath her palm.


End file.
